


The Light After Dark

by LittleRaichu



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-13 20:33:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7136084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRaichu/pseuds/LittleRaichu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. A new Midwife joins the ladies of Nonnatus House. She is cute and Welsh and Patsy thinks she's rather lovely. Note: This will be a slow burn of a fic as I imagine, given the concerns of the day, that their relationship took a while to develop / acknowledge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Braving The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> I've started this story as I'm in the midst of a difficult update for another piece and I needed a distraction. Hence fluff!
> 
> Oh and apologies to anyone named Margaret.

Patsy stumbled into the dark of Nonnatus House. Lightning flashing through the windows allowed her a haphazardly lit path to the kitchen. She scrambled for the light. She clicked the switch once, twice; nothing.

"I think the weather has caused a blackout, I'm afraid."

It was a voice Patsy had never heard before, a slight accent tinged at the edges. She could just make out a flame in the distance. It wavered intermittently at the darkened shadow reaching above it.

"Still, I'm braving the dark. I find the lack of Horlicks at night much more frightening than a blackout."

Patsy turned to leave, suddenly aware of the oddity of a stranger in the darkened kitchen. The voice didn't scare her, _though perhaps it should have,_ thought Patsy. It was the unexpected nature, as though she had stumbled upon something she shouldn't have; as if the words weren't meant for her, that accounted for her exit.

"Are you there?" asked the voice.

'Ah yes," stumbled Patsy, stepping fully into the thin glow of the kitchen. She felt for the ledge of the counter-top and steadied herself.

"Would you like one? Only I'm making one for myself so it's no bother."

"Gosh no," exclaimed Patsy, too eagerly, she realised. Strong English tea and heated Port were the only hot drinks she could stomach.

"Suit yourself."

"Not such a sweet tooth I'm afraid. Besides I should really be getting to bed," Patsy explained. She turned toward the doorway but hesitated. "I'm sorry but who are..."

"Of course you _say_ that," interrupted the voice, "but you haven't tried _my_ Horlicks. It's quite famous."

Patsy smirked, stepping toward the sound. "And what makes this Horlicks so famous?" _And why on earth am I having a conversation with a stranger in the dark?_ She thought. _She could be a cat burglar for all Patsy knew. A cheerful cat burglar with a heart of gold. That would be her modus operandi; lure victims with promises of a malted drink and take them for everything they had._

"Well that would be telling and not showing," the voice chastised. "My English teacher would be aghast. Didn't they teach you that in creative writing?"

"Mr Hawthorn was far more concerned with the classics, I'm afraid."

"Well in that case," said the voice, "I don't mean to brag but Hemingway was quite a fan of my Horlicks."

Patsy laughed. "Is that so?" She quite liked this cat burglar.

"He even wrote a book about it. The tale of Two Horlicks'... about how a lovely Welsh Midwife made a cup for herself, and another for a sophisticated stranger whose name she doesn't yet know. It's awfully suspenseful."

Of course; _the new Midwife_ , remembered Patsy. Sister Julienne had warned them all to be especially kind, she was new to East London. Patsy had been so exhausted by three nights shifts in a row that she hadn't the capacity to even remember she hated storms, much less that a new staff member would be joining them. She had walked the journey home through rain and thunder, and the only thing on her mind had been sleep. But now her mind pulsed with other thoughts. A Welsh accent is rather lovely, she considered, but knowledge of contemporary authors was not a strength of the new Midwife.

"How could I possibly resist?" Patsy relented. "And my name is ..."

"Uh, Uh," the voice scolded, "let me guess. That's the suspenseful part."

"If you must," nodded Patsy, her voice heightened in amusement.

"You sound awfully polished, classy, an air of upper class breeding..."

Patsy reddened at the transparency, thankful that the dark had shrouded her.

"Is it Elizabeth? No that's not it. Grace? No... It's not Margaret is it?" the new Midwife asked in disgust.

"Well I'm somewhat glad that it's not, considering your obvious distaste," laughed Patsy.

"Such an ugly name won't do for such a pretty voice," the Welsh Midwife explained. "I know what it is," she continued, stepping closer to the red-head. Patsy could barely see a darkened figure approach. It stopped just inches from her. She could still see the stove flame from atop the figure's head. Clearly this woman was petite in frame... and standing rather close, she thought. Patsy felt the woman's breath touch the skin of her neck.

"Patsy Mount... I'm Delia Busby, pleased to meet your acquaintance." Delia searched the dark for Patsy's hand. She let her own hand lead the way, outstretched and exploring. But she had been so close to the other woman that all she could feel was starched cotton atop a firm... _very firm_ , stomach. She grasped around, searching for fingers attached to limbs. Patsy, uncomfortable with contact from even people she knew, held her hands out to stop her. "Pleased to meet you too," said Patsy, as nervously as Delia's fumbling.

"Sorry," mumbled Delia, "I was trying to shake your hand. Seems a rather silly thing to attempt in the dark."

The two women searched clumsily for the other's hand until at last they met. And lingered. Patsy had never felt hands so soft; like silk, she thought. But then she thought of her own skin; it's harshness borne from too much disinfectant and scrubbing. She jerked her hand away. The sudden force of it startled Delia. She turned away nonchalantly, pretending it hadn't.

"I think the milk is boiling," Delia said as she inched her way over to the flame. She stirred the liquid, suddenly unsure of what to say. To Patsy, the sound of the wooden spoon intermittently hitting metal was deafening.

"How did you know my name?" asked Patsy, keen to fill the space.

Delia opened cupboards and grasped at its contents. She felt at flattened china. "Nope, they're plates," she said. "Sorry, I'm feeling for cups," she explained to the waiting Midwife. "It's like searching for a cup in a blackout," Delia muttered.

"Here, let me help you," offered Patsy. She inched her way to the sound of Delia's fumbling. "They're in an overhead cupboard." She felt across the wooden panels until she reached the one she expected was hiding the illusory china. She forced it open but the door caught suddenly; loudly.

"Ouch," exclaimed Delia, stumbling backwards.

"Oh my goodness, did I hit you? I'm so sorry," said Patsy, reaching for the relative stranger.

"It's okay," said Delia. She reached one hand out to stop Patsy fussing, the other reached for the source of her pain. "You can help me look for my eye in the morning."

Patsy gasped. "Did I really hurt you? Is it bad?" Patsy could just make out Delia's features; delicate but lacking in detail. She certainly couldn't tell whether any real damage had been caused.

Delia laughed. "Not to worry, I hear eye patches are in vogue," she said, covering her eye.

Patsy reached for the china. "I have the cups," she confirmed, as if the gain of tableware made up for the loss of vital organs. "And I really am sorry about the _eye... eye."_ She had voiced the last words like a pirate. "Oh God, I'm not sure why I thought that would be an appropriate thing to say," said Patsy, clearly mortified. "You mentioned an eye patch, so I thought pirate... I was trying to offer a distraction."

Delia laughed. "That's how I knew your name; who you were," explained Delia. "Trixie and Barbara told me you'd be an absolute menace in the kitchen, tell awful jokes and yet would still be utterly adorable."

Patsy's face blushed all the more. _It's because I'm near the flame_ , she reasoned. Still, she couldn't quite believe she had known this woman for less than five minutes and already she was attempting the awful jokes she usually reserved for drunkenness; already she had been told she was adorable. She had been described as many things: brusque, efficient, stoic, but never adorable. She felt suddenly self-conscious at the forwardness of it all.

"That's Dickens by the way," said Patsy, keen to change the subject to something less personal.

Delia took the cups from Patsy's grasp and felt her way over to the stove. "What is?"

"A Tale of Two Cities. It's Dickens, not Hemingway."

"Well what the Dickens!" exclaimed Delia, laughing. "My village wasn't known for it's love of literature I'm afraid. The Art of Lawn Mower Repair is as high brow as it gets."

"Ah yes," said Patsy, "Proust, I believe."

Delia smirked. "So you _are_ capable of jokes that are actually funny," she said. If the room were lit, Patsy would have witnessed Delia winking in her direction.

Patsy smiled, she enjoyed the lack of pretence. It marked a blessed relief to the women she had been to Boarding School with. They were all for show, like large pristine homes, popular in the suburbs. Though it had been their first meeting, Patsy knew that Delia was 'lived in,' tangible, authentic. Plus, Delia thought she was funny; and no one thought she was funny. She made a mental note to invest in some humorous literature. If medicine could be learnt, so too, could wit.

Delia carefully poured two cups full of her famous Horlicks. She held out a cup for Patsy, but the red-head failed to grasp its whereabouts. Delia grasped for Patsy's hand. Finding it, she helped to clasp Patsy's long fingers around the cup. "Careful, it's hot," said Delia. "And by that I mean, stay away from my other eye."

Patsy rested the scolding cup on the counter top, then picked it up again, this time by its cool handle. "I really am sorry."

"I'm just teasing," said Delia. "But I've got my eye on you. Just the one... The other is still rolling, probably halfway to Brighton by now."

Patsy, who hated any form of physical contact, felt the urge to shove the Welsh midwife playfully. She suppressed it, wondering of its origin. Even in Boarding School she had not participated in such girlish affection. "I can just tell you are never going to let me forget this," said Patsy.

"Never," agreed Delia, taking a sip. "My eye patch shall form a constant reminder."

The sound of Delia's slurping encouraged Patsy to drink of the contents. "Mmmm," she said, convincingly. A little too convincingly.

"Clearly I meant famous for being bloody awful," scoffed Delia. "Somehow I don't think this is Horlicks."

"It does have somewhat of a savoury flavour," agreed Patsy.

"You've hurt me physically, you might as well go ahead and hurt my feelings," laughed Delia, "I've force fed you instant gravy!"


	2. Delia Busby Has A Large Tolerance For Breakfast

Patsy had never noticed the beautiful aftermath of storms before. She usually awoke tired and ashamed at another sleepless night huddled into the darkest corner of Nonnatus. But not this morning. The dark had turned to light, and the voice in her head had not greeted her with its usual post-storm spite. This morning's voice was perky, pleasant, and Welsh. 'Utterly adorable,' Delia had said. It echoed in Patsy's mind, as if Delia were beside her, whispering in her ear.

A smile overcame her. She pulled the bed covers over her face, embarrassed at her helplessness. She smiled into her sheets then calmed herself. Her cheeks squeezed to contain her grin. She pushed the covers off, like the end of a Mexican wave.

Trixie stared in wonder from atop a women's magazine. She had witnessed the whole foolish, giddy scene. An emotionally bare Patience Mount, it seemed, was far more interesting than the latest miracle skin product.

"Was he tall, dark and handsome?" asked Trixie.

"Sorry?" Patsy blushed.

"You've obviously had a rather enticing dream," said Trixie. "Do tell. I'm dying to know just who it is that captures the attention of Patience Mount. I certainly haven't a clue!"

Patsy groaned. "It's my day off and I'm rather pleased. That's all."

"No need to rub it in," said Trixie, "I'm on with Nurse Crane today. Care to wager that I'll be scolded for talking?"

"She's just efficient," reminded Patsy.

"Of course you would say that," laughed Trixie, "she's you in about forty years!"

Trixie noted the gradual disappearance of Patsy's grin. "Oh I don't mean anything by it, just that you're both incredibly dedicated and efficient."

Trixie rose from the bed and gathered her toiletries. "It's a good thing, Pats," she continued, "you'll be the boss of us all one day. Mark my words."

Patsy pulled the covers over her head once more. She huffed into the confined space and waited until the click of the door marked her room-mate's exit.

 _Delia is bound to find out that I'm not utterly adorable_ , thought Patsy. She took little time to contemplate why she wished to impress the new midwife so much. She convinced herself there was no more to it than a chance at becoming somebody else, if only with just one person. Leave the coordinated, serious and level-headed Nurse Mount behind and replace her with someone carefree. Someone who told awful, and not so awful jokes. Someone who Delia thought she was.

Patsy sighed into her covers; she had no idea how to be carefree. Her whole life had been one of routine and structure. It made her feel safe. She felt as though she was tiptoeing on the verge of something that both scared and thrilled her, and she didn't know why.

* * *

Breakfast had started and the Welsh nurse was due to report to duty within the hour. Barbara stood outside her door, fretting whether to make her presence known. _Perhaps the Welsh don't eat breakfast_ , she thought. But just as Barbara raised her fist to knock, the door opened.

"It appears as though I dislike English mornings as much as Welsh ones," mumbled Delia, rubbing her eyes.

Barbara laughed but then noticed the discolouration surrounding Delia's eye. "My Lord, what on earth has happened?"

"Oh it's nothing," explained Delia. "You should see the cabinet door, there's a dent in it the size of Cardiff!"

"You should let me take a look at it."

"Nonsense, it's nothing that a full breakfast won't fix."

"Oh dear," said Barbara, exhaling, "I fear the breakfast spread at Nonnatus will not improve your luck."

"It's not just bread and butter is it?" asked Delia, fearing she was destined to live a sacrificial Nun's life whilst boarding with them.

"No, not at all. It's just that any pastries or cakes are usually consumed by a rather excited Nun before the spread is laid. But there's all the porridge and toast you can eat!"

"Well, Nurse Gilbert," said Delia, entwining Barbara's arm with her own, "I shall take that as a challenge!"

* * *

It had been ten minutes since their arrival at breakfast and Delia was already consuming her fourth piece of Jam-laden toast. She took bites in between heaped spoonfuls of porridge. The table occupants had listened patiently as Delia, in between swallows, gave a long-winded explanation for her bruised eye. Small details were eliminated but a glimpse of the truth remained. She had attempted to heat some milk in the dark and practically knocked herself out with a kitchen cabinet.

Trixie found the story hilarious. Phyllis commented on the blatant disregard for basic health and safety. Sister Monica Joan gushed admirably. A woman who risked life and limb over heated milk; a woman who consumed breakfast like a hoover, was a woman after her own heart. "It seems I have found my kindred spirit," she said. She offered Delia another piece of toast.

"Nurse Mount is absent this morning?" asked Sister Julienne, keen to pry eyes away from Delia's eating habits.

Delia choked slightly on her mouthful. In her hatred of mornings, and now her quest to rise to her self-imposed challenge, she had forgotten all about the nurse from last night. She swallowed and scanned the room for an unfamiliar face.

"Yes Sister," informed Trixie, "I suspect she's having a well-deserved lie in."

"And a well-deserved day off too!" agreed Phyllis.

"Yes, quite," said Sister Julienne. She looked over to Delia. She had resumed her breakfast challenge with gusto. Finishing a piece of toast, Delia washed it down with a cup of tea. She winked at a staring Barbara in the process. Barbara, Sister Julienne noted, had barely touched her selection.

Barbara, quite simply, was in awe. She had been wrong about the Welsh not eating breakfast.

* * *

Patsy waited until most of the house inhabitants had ventured out to exit her room. It seemed to her that it took a lifetime for the opening and shutting of the front door to commence. She had occupied herself in the meantime through examining her nails, polishing her shoes, touching up her make-up, straightening her bed covers, and finally, making a list for her shopping expedition. She had managed to avoid the new midwife in the morning. Now all Patsy had to do was avoid Delia until she made gains into being adorable, funny and carefree. _That should only take a lifetime or a brain transplant,_ she thought.

Patsy stood at the front porch and perused her shopping list. Her mouth twisted in discontent.

"Ah, Nurse Mount, day off?"

Fred took his hat off in greeting. Patsy smiled in return. "I'm treating myself by heading into town."

"And by the looks of it, you've got a whole list of goodies to search for." Fred attempted to glance over Patsy's list but was foiled by its abrupt placement into the midwife's pocket.

"Just the usual, I'm afraid," said Patsy. "Nothing special."

Fred nodded. "You should treat yourself, Nurse Mount. As my Mrs says, all work and no play can't be good for the soul. Mind you, as soon as those very words leave her mouth, she's asking me to fix this and that. I swear I do more labour in my time off than I do at work!"

Patsy laughed, then examined Fred's good humour. She looked at him inquisitively. "Fred? Do you, perchance, know any good jokes?"

"Well, let's see," contemplated Fred.

"It's just that I'm looking for a good icebreaker, something to cut the tension. When patients are poorly I usually engage them with small talk, but perhaps a joke? Laughter is the best medicine, as they say."

"Of course," said Fred. Though he nodded, he remained unconvinced by the practical explanation. "There is this one I learnt as a young lad."

"Yes?" encouraged Patsy.

"It starts off like this..." Fred cleared his throat. "There was an old lady from Kent..."

* * *

Patsy sat on her bed and surveyed the proceeds of her shopping trip. Though mostly literature, she did manage to purchase a small impulsive treat and yet another checked shirt. She hung it away before Trixie was able to comment on the lack of diversity in her wardrobe.

Patsy brushed her fingers across the hard-covered books laid adjacent on her bed. Amongst the literature she had bought two P.G Wodehouse books. She had heard they were quite popular, but now feared them slightly old-fashioned. Still, she reasoned, holding another book in her lap, they couldn't make a worse addition to her bookshelf than 'Britain's Greatest Jokes.' She gathered the books and stored them in the bottom of the wardrobe.

With most of her shopping now tidied away, Patsy approached the treat left on her bed. Her face reddened. She held the item in one hand; a blue ribbon in the other.

* * *

Patsy ensured there was no sight nor sound of house occupants before she ventured inside Delia's room. She crept over and placed the gift gingerly on the side table. She turned to leave but her self-confidence wavered. _I can't just leave it there with no explanation_ , she thought. _What on earth would the new midwife think? A fellow nurse, a woman, granting her gifts on her second day on the job... The sentiment may be noticed above the gift's simplicity_ , she feared. She briefly thought of hiding it with the rest of her purchases but decided a quick note of explanation would suffice.

Patsy raced to her room and ripped some paper from her notebook. _I should write something funny_ , she thought. _Nothing too detailed, just an off-hand witty remark._ She thought momentarily of Fred's joke, but dismissed it. A blue Irish limerick would not be her style of humour, she conceded. She scribbled pen to paper but heard the sound of a door creaking in the distance.

Patsy bolted to Delia's room, panicked to gather the gift before she had to explain its presence. But upon careening toward her destination, she found she was too late. A petite brunette stood at the side table. Her back was to Patsy, and she had the new container of Horlicks in her hand. Patsy grimaced at the garishness of the royal blue ribbon. Then she noticed the curve of Delia's figure and the shine of her hair...

 _You have to say something_ , willed Patsy, _your darn elephant feet have surely given you away._ "Ah... an apology of sorts. For your eye," she explained at last.

Delia turned toward the familiar sound. Her wide grin gave way. Even when amongst the gorgeous green hills of Wales, or upon seeing Grace Kelly at the cinema, Delia Busby had never, _not ever_ , witnessed a sight so breathtakingly beautiful as the woman before her. All thoughts, all speech, all movement escaped her. She stuttered incoherently, her impediment increasing with every step a concerned Patsy took toward her.

"Your eye, I really did hurt you," said Patsy, stepping closer to the brunette. As soon as Delia turned around Patsy had noticed it. The grey purple blemish on an otherwise... _perfect face_ , she began to realise, as she moved closer still. Patsy's eyes shifted from the bruise, to Delia's alabaster skin, to the dark pool of her eyes. A sudden change eclipsed Delia's features. It caused Patsy to realise she was impeding upon the personal space of a woman she had barely met. She stood at an awkward distance, neither friendly nor standoffish.

Delia averted her gaze. "It's... I..." _Come on Delia_ , she willed, embarrassed at her incoherence. _You're a natural talker_... She racked her brain for conversation. _Your eye, say something about your eye_. "I... I guess you really are a sight for sore eye," she said, impulsively. Delia was rather pleased with herself, but then she saw the shy smile sweep across the red-head's face. Delia shut her eyes as the implication dawned on her. "I mean..." _say the first thing that comes to your mind_... "I ate too much!" she exclaimed loudly. _Not that Delia!_ But once the verbal spray started she found it difficult to stop. "At breakfast. That's why I'm home early. Upset stomach."

Patsy nodded, unable to contain her grin. "Too much hot gravy at midnight I suspect."

If Delia recognised the inside joke, she failed to show it. "I must go if I'm to make it to the bathroom on time," she said in a panic. _Stop it Delia!_ She moved past the redhead and toward the door.

"I know a limerick for that," whispered Patsy. She smiled into the empty space. If she were not so enchanted by the awkwardness, she would have worried the brunette's behaviour was caused by the gift. Brazen and given too soon. But charm had overwhelmed her anxiety.

Delia paused at the exit. _You cannot leave like this. Turn around and just be yourself._ She breathed in and exhaled. She swung around, holding her posture in imagined confidence.

"Let me start again," said Delia, with false steadiness. She extended a hand to the redhead. "I'm Delia, pleased to meet you..." Delia's eyes drifted to Patsy's exposed collarbone, "in the flesh," she continued. She instantly regretted her poor choice of words.

Patsy grasped Delia's hand. "I'm Patsy and I'm still sorry about your eye."

"Unless your gift is concealed instant gravy," laughed Delia, "consider it forgotten!"

The two women held each other's gaze for an inordinate amount of time.

"We must look like two politicians at a press conference," commented Delia. It was only then that Patsy realised she was still grasping Delia's hand. She immediately loosened her hold. Not knowing what to do with her abandoned limb, she swung her arms by her side like a child. A stilted silence filled the room.

"So tell me this limerick," asked Delia, finally.

"Absolutely not!" Patsy stiffened. "Such a blue joke cannot be heard by such..." _By such a rose_ she was about to say. She swallowed the compulsivity of it. "By such small ears," she corrected. _Small ears? Patience Mount, you imbecile._

Delia placed her hands on her hips in feigned annoyance. "I can see it's going to take something stronger than Horlicks to get it out of you," she said, before revealing the single malt whiskey hidden in her top drawer. "The next time we share a day off, be very afraid." She held the whiskey like a weapon.

Patsy raised her eyebrow. "Second night at Nonnatus and you're already leading me astray," teased Patsy. "What on earth would the Nuns say?"

"I imagine they'd say that Delia Busby has a large tolerance for breakfast and alcohol." She grinned impishly. "But quite small ears."


	3. The Patron Saint of Bundt Cake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contrary to the show, in this chapter Delia is a fan of cake.
> 
> Thankyou to Think_Busby_Think for proofreading.
> 
> Thankyou to those who took the time to review.

Delia and Patsy had managed to get through their joint shift with professional friendliness. Delia had impressed Patsy. She found her manner to be kind and courteous, firm but fair. She aspired for such a perfect mixture. To be both serious and carefree in equal measure; yet knowing when one should eclipse the other.

Delia, however, had been on her best behaviour. She wanted to leave a positive mark, one that would make Patsy glad she had joined the tight-knit team at Nonnatus. But by the end of her eight hour shift, Delia was bursting for some playful banter. She glanced up to the clock; in two minutes their shift at the clinic would end. Delia tapped her pocket; at her pre-planned instruments bulging slightly through the linen. She glanced over her shoulder to see Patsy approaching. With her back to the redhead, she donned her disguise.

Patsy tapped Delia on the shoulder. "Nurse Busby, I do believe we survived."

Delia turned to her; an eye patch covered her face. Patsy's features weakened in amusement.

"Well part of me survived, Patsy," said Delia, sadly.

Patsy nodded, suppressing her laughter.

"Care to wager what part of me didn't quite make it?" asked Delia, stony-faced.

Patsy pondered for a moment. "Would it be your eye, Delia?"

"Oh you noticed," said Delia, sighing. "I was hoping it wouldn't be obvious. Seems it didn't recover from, well... I don't like to mention it."

Patsy placed a hand on Delia's shoulder, then surveyed the damage. "You've come to the right place, Ms Busby. Let me take a look." Patsy clasped Delia's face in her hands. She pivoted the brunette's chin upwards in an effort to further examine it. Patsy couldn't help but drift from the patch covering Delia's eye, to the smoky pool adjacent. Their eyes caught for a moment, brief but intense. Delia could feel Patsy's hot breath on her skin as she exhaled.

Patsy abruptly released Delia from her clasp, then stepped back. "It's worse than I feared," she concluded.

"What is it, Nurse?" asked Delia, dramatically.

Patsy placed her hands on her hips and sighed. "Perhaps we can get you a blouse with bishop sleeves? A wooden stump wouldn't go amiss."

The sudden appearance of Delia's dimples failed her. She laughed, then involuntarily grasped Patsy's hand. Patsy looked to their joint hands briefly, then back to Delia. Just as quickly as Delia's dimples appeared, they had vanished. She looked over Patsy's shoulder, to the sound of footsteps in the distance.

"But where on earth will we find a parrot at such late notice?" asked Patsy, as she turned to see what was troubling the brunette.

"Nurse Busby, what on earth?" asked Phyllis, charging toward the two women.

Patsy positioned herself beside Delia in solidarity.

Delia removed her eye patch, a cats eye marble fell from its once secure resting place. It bounced sharply on the wooden floor, then rolled, stopping abruptly at Nurse Crane's feet.

Delia covered her naked eye with her hand. "Oh, my eye," she said, with much less enthusiasm than originally envisioned. As much as Patsy tried to stifle her giggling, she was remarkably unsuccessful. Delia tugged at Patsy's dress in an effort to stop her, but it only served to make the giggling contagious.

"I'm sorry, Nurse Crane," said Delia, through stifled laughter. "It's just a bit of fun."

"May I remind you that you are still on duty," chastised Phyllis. "There's a certain decorum to be expected."

The older midwife addressed Patsy. "Honestly Nurse Mount, I'm surprised... and disappointed."

"My apologies Nurse Crane, it won't happen again."

"I should think not," said Phyllis. "Now which one of you can I _trust_ to give me a handover?"

* * *

"I'm so sorry," said Delia, as Patsy made her appearance on the clinic porch. "Did she chastise you further?"

"I wouldn't worry about Nurse Crane," said Patsy. "She seems rather gruff on first impressions but honestly her bark is worse than her bite."

"I was afraid she was about to march me to the headmaster's office by the scruff of my neck," remarked Delia.

Patsy crossed her arms. "I imagine that has happened quite a lot."

"It was never my fault," Delia protested.

"Of course not." Patsy walked ahead, motioning Delia to follow. "Butter wouldn't melt in your mouth, I'm sure."

"Speaking of butter," said Delia, catching up to the taller midwife. "Why don't I treat us to some tea and butter cake? By way of apology of course."

"Are you trying to butter me up, Nurse Busby?" asked Patsy, amused.

"Is it working?" Delia nudged Patsy's side, playfully.

Patsy nudged her in return. "Go on then."

* * *

Delia returned to the table with a pot of tea and an assortment of cakes.

"So I know I said butter cake but they had this delicious looking bundt cake and I just couldn't resist. So I got both."

"How horrendously disappointing," joked Patsy, hurrying a piece to her plate.

"Oh my Lord," said Delia, swallowing a mouthful of butter cake. "This might be the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. What is this place again?"

"The Silver Buckle." Patsy smiled, enjoying Delia's animated reaction.

"Well we are definitely coming back here," said Delia. "Cakes to die for. And is that a jukebox?" she asked, looking over Patsy's shoulder. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all. Though let it be known in advance, I will judge if your selection is poor."

"My taste in music is as flawless as my taste in baked goods," Delia assured.

Patsy watched the brunette scan the selection of records. She glanced admiringly as Delia lifted her leg out, her hands gripping the sides of the jukebox. Patsy's eyes travelled the length of Delia's leg, resting on her calf muscles, then the svelte of her ankle. Having picked a record, Delia turned back toward the table. Patsy looked to her tea, stirring the contents.

"I just love this song, don't you?" asked Delia, motioning the actions to 'The Twist' from her chair. "We were never allowed much music in the house growing up. Just the radio. And Welsh radio isn't known for its capacity to keep one enthralled."

"It is very catchy," Patsy agreed. "I never asked, what brings you to London? Surely there's work to be done in Wales?"

"Trying to get rid of me already, Nurse Mount?"

"I'm merely intrigued, I assure you."

"I could get work in Wales, yes. But I couldn't get such music or the chance to go out dancing. The pictures are miles away and always behind the times. I swear they're only now showing The Bells of Saint Mary's.".

Patsy smirked.

"And besides, I wouldn't get such dazzling company back home."

Patsy sipped from her tea; an effort to hide her widening smile.

"I could ask the same of you, of course. Someone with your pedigree could be working in the poshest areas of London. So why Poplar?" Asked Delia.

"I've never held great respect for my pedigree," said Patsy. "An honest days service for society's most vulnerable, however... I think there's something certainly fulfilling in that."

"You really are a sort of saint, Nurse Mount," said Delia, smiling. "Saint Patsy Mount of Nonnatus. It has a certain ring to it."

"Patience technically. And I could say the same of you, Saint Delia Busby of Wales."

Delia leaned back in her chair, her eyes narrowed. "Patience? What an extraordinarily beautiful name," she remarked. Delia's eyes followed the length of Patsy's face, to her torso and back up again, appearing to do so in some kind of trance. "Quite..." _fitting_ she was about to say, but shook herself. "Quite the opposite of Delia," she continued. "Delia Busby, the Patron Saint of Dinner Ladies, I'm sure."

Patsy laughed. "Nonsense. Delia is a name more suited to lovely things. Surely you would be, Delia Busby, the Patron Saint..." Patsy pondered. She scanned the room for inspiration. "The Patron Saint of Bundt Cake."

Delia furrowed her brow exaggeratedly. "Oh is that so, Patience Mount? The Patron Saint of all things small and stubby. Delightful." She turned her head and pursed her lips.

Patsy shook her head, grinning. "Incredibly sweet, I meant."

"Oh quite the charmer now, I see!" remarked Delia, smirking.

Patsy pushed a plate of bundt cake toward the brunette. "A peace offering?"

Delia looked toward the bundt cake, then back to Patsy. "It would be amiss of me not to support my flock," she said. Delia took a bite; her face scrunched in disappointment. "Small, stubby _and dense_ ," she said. "Quite the charmer indeed."


	4. Someone Kind And Funny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More slowly progressing fluff! This chapter was partly inspired by being told that my dimples are a birth defect. Bless.
> 
> Thanks to those who reviewed the previous update, it is truly appreciated and encouraging.
> 
> Huge thanks to Think_Busby_Think for the proofread.

Patsy's persistent chuckle distracted Trixie from the latest edition of Vogue.

"Wodehouse?" asked Trixie from the adjacent bed. "I thought you were far too intellectual for such light fiction."

Patsy closed the book, a bent finger keeping her place. "I'm broadening my horizons and rather enjoying it. You just stick to that drivel you're reading."

"I'll have you know, Patience Mount, these magazines are the very reason my complexion is utter perfection." Trixie placed the magazine open in her lap and basked, as if sunning herself with a UV reflector.

"Those magazines are why you feel you must reach perfection," Patsy protested. "I note there are no magazines demanding such high standards of men."

"I find my men perfect when they're not, to be awfully frank. A little bit of stubble, hair somewhat dishevelled. It's terribly masculine."

Patsy raised an eyebrow. "And the complete opposite of Tom."

"Yes well, perhaps he's more Barbara's type," said Trixie, flicking through the magazine with more force than necessary.

Though Trixie feigned fascination with the contents of Vogue, Patsy could see the blonde eyeing her peripherally. Patsy held her breath, sure that she would be questioned at any moment. Trixie turned the pages quickly, concentrating on nothing more than just how she would approach the question. She had attempted such probing before, each time unsuccessful.

"Just out of curiosity, Pats," said Trixie, not daring to look at the redhead, "what exactly is your type?"

Patsy groaned. She opened her book to its place, hoping to signal that now was not a convenient time for 'girl talk.'

"Oh it's not like I've asked you to divulge some dark secret," said Trixie, thrusting the magazine aside. She pivoted her body in Patsy's direction. "I just want a glimpse as to who could melt the heart of Patience Mount."

Patsy turned the page, ignoring the plea.

"Perhaps the man of your dreams?" teased the blonde.

The tall midwife felt the sudden urge for a cigarette. She shook one out of a silver case. "You really are one to slay the slain, Trixie," said Patsy. She lit the cigarette then held it in the air, resting between two fingers. "I told you, I was simply elated to have a day off. Three night shifts in a row is not becoming on one's complexion." She pointed the cigarette toward the discarded Vogue. "As those magazines would attest."

That hadn't accounted for waking in elation every morning for the past fortnight, thought Trixie.

"I wonder what Vogue would have to say about the rosy complexion you're suddenly sporting," mocked the blonde.

If she hadn't blushed before, Patsy certainly did now. With her spare hand, she threw a pillow at the teasing midwife. "Why don't you continue reading and find out," she laughed.

Trixie artfully dodged the flying Manchester. "That answer by omission means I'm going to have to guess."

"Don't you dare," exclaimed Patsy. "I am not some raffle to be won at a church fete."

"Then don't be such a tease."

Patsy slumped against the bed frame, her cigarette dangled from the edge of her lips.

"Well?"

"I don't know. Someone kind and funny, I suppose."

"You've just described Mickey Rooney," laughed Trixie. "Noted, Nurse Mount. Short and balding takes your fancy."

You're half right _,_ thought Patsy. "Sorry you asked?"

"Besides personality of course. What is your physical type?"

Patsy ground the cigarette into an ashtray. Though only half consumed, she needed the distraction more than the nicotine. "If they're a good person, what they look like is quite redundant."

Trixie sighed. It would take a rather different approach to get anything out of the secretive midwife, she surmised. "What about ex-boyfriends? What did they look like?"

Patsy looked to the discarded cigarette in the ashtray, wondering if it were salvageable.

Trixie narrowed her eyes. "You _have_ had boyfriends, Pats?"

The redhead shook another cigarette out of its case. She placed the cylinder between her lips, then thought better of it. She tapped the case against the palm of her hand in frustration. "Of course," she said, finally. "But such private affairs are just that, not to mention well and truly in the past."

"I'm only asking for a description. Honestly, you'd think I'd demanded their first born."

Patsy pursed her lips. She would have to tell Trixie something, lest she look as though she were protesting too much. "They were all very brief," she relented.

"All? Patience Mount, you dark horse." Trixie sat at the edge of her bed, leaning her slight frame forward. "Describe the man of your last brief encounter. Like Trevor Howard himself, I suspect."

Patsy had a boyfriend once, of course. A brunette with a mischievous personality. Fond of his mother and a spot of cricket, she recalled.

"Hardly. Utter mother's boy and completely spoilt at that."

Trixie smiled, enjoying Patsy's candour. "No great loss then?"

"Not exactly."

_"And?"_

"And what?"

Trixie groaned. "What did he look like?"

"Short, brown hair, quite boyish." It wasn't technically a lie, Patsy reasoned. Though she made no mention that Charlie was only seven when their brief encounter began and ended. It had started with a flower given and ceased abruptly, with a frog down her dress.

Slight disappointment spoiled Trixie's features. "Mickey Rooney really is your type."

"You're the worst," laughed Patsy. Trixie retaliated swiftly, attempting to smother her friend with the once air-born pillow.

A knock at the door interrupted their struggled laughter. "Come in," called Trixie, straining.

Delia appeared at the entrance, smiling at the obvious shenanigans taking place behind closed doors. "I was just about to retire for the night, but couldn't help notice the sound of utter mischief coming from your room."

Patsy straightened herself, patting down the stray hairs that had escaped their stronghold. "Trixie just tried to murder me," she accused. "You are quite literally a life saver."

"Well in that case, as you were," said Delia, feigning an exit. Patsy grabbed the pillow and threw it at the brunette.

"Nurse Mount, I believe that's the second time you've hit me with a flying object."

"But the first time I've meant it," replied Patsy, smirking.

Delia addressed the blonde. "I'm sure she completely deserved it, Trixie. A complete menace, this one," she said, pointing to the tall midwife.

Trixie admired the banter passing between the two women. Delia had barely arrived and already she was making firm friends. Though she wasn't quite sure how anyone could describe the controlled midwife as a menace. "Patsy was just sharing her illustrious dating history," explained Trixie. "I'm afraid it is downright criminal in its own right."

"Is that so?" asked Delia. "Do tell."

"Trixie Franklin if you so much as utter a word," warned Patsy.

"Your secret is safe with me, Pats," reassured Trixie, zipping her lips.

Delia smiled at the tall midwife. She hoped Patsy's secret mirrored her own. Patsy noticed the slight shift in Delia's eyes but became distracted by her dimples. Patsy had dimples of her own, of course. But Delia's were like shallow pools of loveliness, completely suited to the rest of her features. She had once read that dimples were a birth defect, but surely Delia's were a gift? Recognising her prolonged staring, she looked away abruptly, checking that Trixie hadn't caught wind of her true type.

"Though if you know an Andy Hardy lookalike, send him Patsy's way," continued Trixie. She shot Patsy a mischievous glance before leaning back in laughter.

Patsy rose, aghast at Trixie's betrayal. She wrestled her to the bed.

"I'll be sure to keep a look out," said Delia. Her face bright, but her voice tinged with a slight sadness that was missed by the wrestling midwives. "I'll leave you to it," she continued.

Trixie freed herself from Patsy's hold. "And what is your type, Delia?" she asked.

Delia paused at the doorway. Perhaps I could pretend I didn't hear, she thought.

"Delia?"

Patsy hid herself behind Trixie's frame, biting her lip in anticipation.

Delia shrugged. "I don't know. Kind and funny I suppose."

Trixie turned to Patsy, each suppressing a knowing grin. "Mickey Rooney!" they screamed in unison.

* * *

Patsy glanced from her novel to the open door.

"If you want me to shut the door, you just have to ask," said Trixie, manicuring her nails.

"It's perfectly alright."

"Are you sure? It seems to make you awfully distracted."

Failing to get a response, Trixie looked to her room-mate. She noticed Patsy's brow, tense in concentration, lift suddenly. Her eyes had darted from the book to the doorway once more. Patsy seemed to swallow her lips; a faulty attempt at hiding a grin. Trixie followed her gaze but merely witnessed a shadow, quickly disappearing.

"I might freshen up," said Patsy. She gathered her toiletries then turned to her room-mate. "Do you have a mint?"

* * *

Delia grinned at Patsy through the mirror's reflection. "Fancy seeing you here," she said, offering her toothpaste.

"I take personal hygiene seriously, Nurse Busby," said Patsy, accepting the tube.

"As seriously as your membership with the Andy Hardy fan club?"

Patsy rolled her eyes. "Trixie Franklin, ever facetious."

"So you have something against short people?" asked Delia. Though she smiled, her voice was tainted with rehearsed annoyance.

"Of course not. Good things come in small packages."

Delia smiled like a child. "But tall packages are more alluring," she said; an attempt at politeness.

Patsy reddened, then quickly commenced brushing her teeth. Delia followed in kind, suddenly embarrassed at her unintended forwardness. They both realised, however, that facing the mirror didn't exactly allow for an easy reprieve. Their eyes wandered aimlessly, each not sure where to look. Patsy chose to concentrate on the faucet, Delia on the counter-top.

Once finished, Patsy contemplated leaving immediately, but steadied herself. She glanced toward Delia; still fascinated with the marble surrounding the basin. "Just out of curiosity," said Patsy, placing the toothbrush back in its home, "What really is your type? Physically, I mean." Avoiding the brunette's surveillance, she concentrated on fastening the toiletry bag.

Delia sipped at her glass of water. "It's perhaps an awful cliché," she said. "Tall..."

"Dark and handsome," Patsy finished, nodding ever so sadly.

Delia positioned her head to the side. She examined Patsy's features through the reflection. "Not exactly," she said; her tone matching her expression. Serious and contemplative. She gathered her toiletries and headed to the exit. Holding the frame of the door, she turned to Patsy. "What precisely do you call the tone of your hair?" she asked. A gradual, impish grin graced her features. "Just out of curiosity."

"Bright copper," said Patsy, bemused.

Delia nodded. "Bright copper," she repeated. She took a moment to admire Patsy's locks once more. "It suits you," she said, quietly. Delia smiled briefly, her dimples showing for just a second, then left the room.

Patsy stared into the mirror. Her mouth curved slightly at first, before widening to near capacity. She let herself appreciate Delia's words for a moment. Though convinced her dimples were not as lovely as Delia's, Patsy couldn't help but show them proudly. Nearing the entrance of her room, she shook herself; an effort to regain an inch of composure. But a slight smile remained.

"You look like you've just scored a date with Mickey Rooney," remarked Trixie, staring at the open door. Witnessing the sudden, unwelcome change eclipse Patsy's features, Trixie leaped onto the pillow of mass destruction before Patsy could inflict its wrath yet again.


End file.
